Villain Filler: The Musical!
by Rhianwen
Summary: Even villains aren't villains all the time. A collection of silly, sappy, or just plain weird Joker/Wendy related one-shots. Chapter 18: Dear Baby. An expectant mother apologizes profusely to her unborn child.
1. Twilight of the Bunnies

Villain Filler: The Musical!

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Note: These chapters are not part of an overreaching story. They are little mini-fics that really relate in no way, other than that they feature the same two characters doing silly things. Over and over and over. Bezo, stop giggling.

If you attempt to find a deeper meaning, or even a coherent plot, you will give yourself a headache. This has been fair warning. :)

I figure, this is what I'll do with all my sillier Wendy/Joker pieces, instead of uploading 17 drabbles a day, and making everyone on hate Rhianwen. That is, until introduces a rule, stating that all entries must have a coherent plot.

If this happens, I fear we are all screwed.

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Title: Twilight of the Bunnies

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Summary: Wendy's training in the ways of villainy is progressing nicely, but there is still one more obstacle left to overcome…

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Timeline: A year or so before ROD the TV

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"Sir?" Wendy ventured timidly as the car bounced merrily along the country road.

Joker glanced at her from the passenger side.

"Hmm?"

"Well, I just wondered, what exactly is the last part of my training, that entailed a long, leisurely drive through the country in the middle of the day?"

He smiled kindly, considering and dismissing the suspicion that she was questioning his judgment. She was simply asking, that was all. She would never make fun of him - after all, what was there to make fun of?

"Wendy, you've been making excellent progress lately, setting aside all that is good, wholesome, and innocent. I've had particular fun in helping you get rid of that _innocence_ thing. However, you're still one crucial step away from true villainhy. We are out here to help you take that step. One final test," he said solemnly, "and you'll be as much of a right bastard as I am."

"Oh, good," she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose lightly. "Just what I've always wanted."

"Yes, well, I've been the object of admiration before," he said, his tone heavily implying that if characterization had not still been a concern, however minor, he would be hitching up his belt.

_I really ought to be horrified at the idea of devoting blind and unwavering loyalty to such a yutz,_ she reflected, shaking her head sadly, _but he's just so cute when he's arrogant. Constantly.  
_

"Ah! I think we're in sight of our goal," he announced, breaking her out of her short trance.

"Right; what do I do?" Wendy asked, glancing briefly at him before returning her attention to the road in front of her.

"Do you see the bunny rabbit sitting in the middle of the road just up ahead?"

She peered carefully out the windshield, then yelped in delight.

"Ohh, it's so cute! Look at its floppy little ears!"

"I'm going to assume that to be a 'yes,'" he chuckled.

She sighed.

"Yes, I see it."

He smiled.

"Good. Now, speed up to exactly seventy-seven kilometers an hour, and run over it."

She stared at him in wide-eyed confusion.

"Em...what?"

"Hit the bunny."

"You want me to run over an innocent little bunny rabbit?"

"Ah, but do you know for certain that it's innocent, Wendy?"

"Oh, I see! This bunny is a fiendish enemy of Mr. Gentleman!" she surmised, glaring fiercely at the little fuzzy creature watching the approaching vehicle curiously, its head tilted adorably to the side.

"What? No, it's just a randomly chosen bunny rabbit that happened to be on the road at the moment."

"Then why on earth would I want to hurt it?"

"Wendy, you have to do this if you want to reach your full potential of cold-blooded evil."

"But, Mr. Joker, it's looking at me with big sad shiny bunny-eyes!"

He sighed heavily.

"Yes, Wendy, I see them. Now, aim for those big sad shiny bunny-eyes, and accelerate. And be ready for a bit of a squish."

"But that poor innocent bunny! Maybe, if it was a really mean, antisocial bunny that went around making fun of all the other bunnies and stealing their carrots, I might be able to. But not if it's just an innocent little bunny who's just trying to live his little bunny-life undisturbed!"

"I don't think I've ever heard so many gratuitous uses of the word 'bunny' in one statement in my life," Joker reflected curiously. "But, unfortunately, in the meantime, we have passed _our_ bunny."

"Oh, thank goodness!" Wendy sighed in fervent relief.

"Ah, you have much to learn about villainy, my dear," he sighed, patting her shoulder gently. "You see, this was all a test. That wasn't actually a real bunny. And by failing to run over the artificial bunny, you have very decidedly failed."

"Artificial?" she exclaimed, slamming on the brakes.

"Ack!" Joker wanted to say as he was thrown violently forward, but could not, as this would have robbed him of far more dignity than he was willing to sacrifice for a simple thing like his secretary going suddenly and inexplicably insane.

"Good God, Wendy, was that really necessary?" Joker actually said as the blonde threw the car into reverse, looked carefully over her shoulder, and stepped on the gas again. He nodded curiously as the car shot suddenly backwards down the road. "Yes, we are going to die. No question about it this time."

"Hold on," Wendy requested. "I've almost got it…almost…almost…there!"

Joker sighed.

"You stopped and backed over it, just because it's not a real bunny?"

"Will I still earn partial marks?" she asked, eyes wide and pleading.

"I'll see what I can do," he said, lips twitching slightly in attempt to hold back a smile. "Now, how would you react if I told you it was, instead of a real bunny, merely a cat wearing little bunny ears?"

She stared at him in horrified astonishment for several moments, during which he once again reconciled himself to the certainty of his own death as the car swerved wildly about the road.

"But you said it wasn't a cute, fuzzy little creature!" she wailed.

"No," he corrected calmly. "I said it wasn't a bunny."

"A cat's even worse!"

"Yes, but the fact remains that you still ran it over with the car," Joker said with an approving smile. "I'm proud of you. We'll have to celebrate later."

"That poor little cat! I feel awful! And just because it wasn't – I'm sorry, what?"

"How would you feel about another desktop session, just to take care of those last shreds of innocence that I might have missed the first several dozen times?"

She considered this for a long moment.

"Can I use the straps on _you_ this time?"

"Of course not!" he replied with a hearty laugh. "What a silly idea! However," he added hastily as her expression grew despondent, and the unpleasant possibility of being left to his own devices and cold showers by a pouting female became rapidly more likely, "if you like, I'll let you use the whip."

Her eyes grew wide and starry.

"Really?"

"Just this once."

"Yes, Sir," she murmured, flushed and giddy.

And with that, she returned her full attention to the business of driving, and now that he was no longer busy fearing for his life, Joker found a moment to smirk and think to himself,

_Ah, she's so conveniently predictable…we'll have her kicking puppies in no time._

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End Notes: Yup, that's right. The last step to true villainy is a healthy indifference to all things absurdly cute. Especially when you're going up against Yomiko.


	2. A Man and His Toys

A Man and His Toys

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Timeline: Sometime during ROD the TV

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Summary: Wendy catches Mr. Carpenter in an embarrassing position.

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All was quiet in the office of Mr. Joseph Carpenter. The telephone was notably silent, and he was alone, due in part to the fact that most of the building was currently on lunch break.

He glanced craftily first to the left, then to the right, just to be sure that Wendy hadn't come back early from the break that he had finally insisted she take after she had fallen asleep standing up for the fourth time, and then rose from his desk to draw the curtains closed.

This accomplished, he made his way back over to his desk, pulled out his chair, and opened the top drawer with a slight grin of delight.

He withdrew the little wooden box tucked away in the back, and shut the drawer again, before dumping the box's contents out on the surface of his desk amid stacks of papers that Wendy hadn't gotten around to taking care of for him yet.

Four little plastic figurines tumbled out.

He reached for the first: that of an exceedingly old man that was, notably, not the seven books that the man himself currently was.

"Ah, Mr. Gentleman," he sighed, hugging the action figure briefly. "You are sorely missed."

"I know, Joker, I know," he made the little plastic lump say. "But I will return soon, and take my faithful ones unto myself!"

Sighing wistfully at the recollection of the old man's deathbed promise, he perched the plastic figure of the cape-clad old man with a big "G" emblazoned on its chest on the top of a stack of papers.

Then he reached for another of the figures - a G.I. Joe - and made it bounce over the desk toward the dramatically posing Mr. Gentleman.

"I am the evil, stupid, and smelly American! I will destroy you and your boundless wisdom, Mr. Gentleman!" he made it declare in a cartoonishly cavemanesque voice.

"You may try, foul American fiend," he made Mr. Gentleman correct grandly, "but the way of Justice and all things British shall vanquish you in the end!"

With that, he made the cape-wearing figurine swoop down from its paper-perch to kick G.I. Joe directly in the head.

"Ow! That hurt! But, as I had no brain to begin with, there was no damage to it!"

He took a moment to chuckle at his own cleverness, and then threw the G.I. Joe to the floor to symbolize its death.

"Who will be the next to be vanquished by the power of Mr. Gentleman?" he made the little caped figurine demand grandly.

"I will face you, Mr. Gentleman!" a second G.I. Joe figure proclaimed.

"Hah!" the Mr. Gentleman figure barked before sailing high into the air and descending rapidly upon the unsuspecting G.I. Joe.

"Ow!" the G.I. Joe yelped as Mr. Gentleman stomped repeatedly on his prone body. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!"

"Mr. Carpenter!" a voice called cheerfully from the door. "I'm back from lunch. Are you—"

Here, Wendy came to a dead stop a few steps from the desk, and stared in bewilderment at the sight of her boss joyously staging a battle with three action figures.

"Hello, Wendy," he greeted calmly, Mr. Gentleman still in one hand and G.I. Joe in the other. "Have a nice time?"

She nodded, maintaining a completely solemn expression with some difficulty. After all, hadn't her mother always taught her that it wasn't nice to laugh at mad people?

"Should I come back later?"

"No, that's quite alright," he replied. "Although, there is something I would like to discuss. Turn around for a moment, will you?"

She complied, and the next moment, bit back a fit of ill-timed giggles at the sounds of several action figures being swept into the desk drawer, where they belonged.

"Alright, come have a seat," he requested after a moment.

Fastening her solemn expression back into place, she pulled out the chair before his desk and sat.

"I hope," he said slowly, "that this…incident won't have a damaging effect on your opinion of me."

"Not at all, Sir," she said cheerfully. "I still want to do a wide variety of fun things to you that involve clothes sailing across the room."

He laughed as she clapped both hands over her mouth with a dismayed squeak. A better actor might have been able to convince him that it had been an honest mistake, but this was Wendy. Hadn't she once, after a session of hardcore drinking at their last Christmas party, sobbed into his shoulder the story of her pre-school Christmas pageant, and how she had suffered a disillusioning blow when her teacher had yanked her very first acting experience away from her halfway through rehearsals, because she just didn't have the talent to convincingly play Dancing Tree #4?

And there was something to be said for a woman who would put herself through willing humiliation just so that he wouldn't feel alone.

"Right," he said, standing up abruptly and sweeping everything off his desk in one abrupt motion. "Off we go, then."

Wendy eyed the mass of papers now covering the floor, and folded her arms.

"Sir, you really need to stop doing that," she said, exasperated. "I've spent every afternoon this week, putting those back in order."

He sighed.

"Well, that's all but killed the mood."

"No!" she protested, eyes wide and horrified, clearing his desk in a single leap. "Don't worry, I'll wake him back up!"

He permitted himself a grin as she disappeared beneath his desk and, seconds later, his belt went shooting across the room.

_I think I have a new favourite game..._

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End Notes:Woot! Massive rewrite time!


	3. By the Power of the Dog

By the Power of the Dog

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Timeline: Very end of Episode 26

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Summary: My take on what the heck was up with that dog in the rosebushes at the very end of the show. Caution: based on a scene apparently cut from the television airings on G4 or whatever it is. So, for those of you wondering where the heck Rhianwen's pulled this dog out of, it _did_ exist. Honest! I'm not delusional!

* * *

A rustle in the bushes.

The man in the rocking chair on the porch, hair stark white, green eyes glazed and unfocused, stared at the source of the small disturbance.

"Wolf?" he muttered, then shook his head very slightly. That wasn't it…

A dog.

But why?

What vitally important message was the dog sent here to convey to him?

"Dog," he murmured. "Dog…doggie."

It was on the very edge of his consciousness, the significance of this animal. Without any idea of what he was saying, the man in the chair murmured,

"Doggie…doggie-style."

The second he uttered the words aloud, he started, as though an electric shock had passed through him. The dazed look in his eyes cleared, and his expression shifted from the blankness and emptiness of the past months to one of a man who has just realized something very important, and is very anxious to act on this new knowledge.

"Doggie-style!" he repeated, fully alert. He turned, glancing over his shoulder at the door into the house. "Wendy! Come here a moment, will you? Oh, and leave your clothes where they are; you won't need them."

No response.

"Ah, she must be fixing tea," he mused. "About that time, I suppose." He shook his head. "That girl…loses all sight of the rest of the world when she has a teapot in front of her. Oh, well."

With that, he rose from his chair and started around to the back door of the small house, quite intent upon finding his roommate and erstwhile employee and putting into use the wisdom of the dog.

And over in the bush, the dog rolled its big brown doggie-eyes.

_Figures_, it thought_, that the mere idea of a goings-on can bring a man out of a coma._

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End Notes: Long, unwieldy, and stupid. All from a short, sweet, hilarious bit of dialogue my boyfriend thought up. That's what we do: he comes up with funny, but unusable lines, and I mutilate them by putting them into stories, utterly robbing them of their charm. Go me!


	4. What Better Time Than Now

What Better Time Than Now

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Timeline: Post-series

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Summary: "But there was no reason not to ask her before then. And there were lots of reasons to ask her now." Less blatantly silly than the rest of these. More along the lines of blatantly sugar-sweet sappy. :)

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He set aside his newspaper and listened with a slight smile to the light, feminine voice that drifted out from the kitchen, its cheery song punctuated occasionally by the clink of cups against saucers.

Sometimes it perplexed him that she could remain so cheerful in the face of their current situation.

But as long as she didn't become careless and put them both at risk, there was no reason to discourage her attempts to focus on their extraordinary luck in remaining successfully hidden for so long.

Not to mention, his extraordinary luck in regaining his senses and faculties after four months of the nightmarish helplessness of one drowning in a massive surge of knowledge that his mind had retreated from in its inability to handle it.

He was able to admit quite easily that he had come to appreciate this sweet, sunny disposition that had never entirely vanished when it came time for her to _grow up_ _already_, and had begun recently to show again more clearly, since they had come here.

Still, he knew, probably better than she did, what it was costing her to stay here with him, when she could probably make a place for herself in the world if she would simply give up on this stubbornly-held idea of hers, of staying to take care of him, even though both knew it was no longer necessary – the gruff old doctor with _no use for women _that she had convinced with big blue eyes and fierce loyalty to the white-haired man to examine and assess his case had said as much.

Had become a bit of a joke between them, really. She was staying to take care of him; because hadn't she always done that, sort of? Little things that someone with more_ important _things on his mind had no time to worry about; things like healthy meals every now and again that she never would have remembered for herself and thus ended up sharing with him on occasion when he thought of it; doctors' appointments, reminders to go home to sleep instead of eventually crashing into unconsciousness at his desk; tidying up periodically so that a book carelessly left somewhere about his office might not disappear forever into the clutter.

She was afraid of the possibility of change from this new incarnation of the old rhythms of their relationship; her hurried, alarmed assurances that she was more than glad to stay with him and do the many tasks that were far too easy to let her handle told him that.

That, he decided, was more than alright by him. If she wanted to stay with him so badly, to remind him with her presence and her bright smiles each morning and her periodic bursts into cheerful song that the situation wasn't as bad as _reality_ made it seem, he wouldn't dissuade her.

Because, of course, she must have _some_ idea of the possibility of re-establishing her life if she would only break from the safe monotony of building up an existence that kept his relative happiness at its heart.

Either way, he wouldn't insult her intelligence by trying to explain it to her. And if that meant that she remained unaware of it, so be it.

Still, there was something a little wrong about the way they were doing this. A problem easily fixed.

He crossed the room to his desk and pulled out the top drawer, and then withdrew a tiny box. With a slight smile and soft eyes, he started toward the kitchen.

This was something he had been meaning to do for some time now. Initially, the idea had come to him that it might be practical; it would cement her loyalty more firmly up to the point of their success, while that success itself would free both of them.

Now the idea seemed not so much practical, but the only thing to do.

Of course, they would not be able to actually _do_ it until all this should blow over, if expecting that to happen wasn't just her needlessly hopeful thinking that seemed to be catching.

But there was no reason not to ask her before then.

And, he decided, tucking the ring box behind him as she turned and smiled brightly at the sound of his footsteps behind her, there were lots of reasons to ask her now.

* * *

End Notes: Whoo! Went from a triple-drabble to just under 650 words! All by the power of Obsessive Editing!


	5. Fluffzilla!

Fluffzilla!

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Timeline: A few weeks after Part 3 of the OVAs

* * *

Summary: Eheh…with this one, the summary might just end up longer than the fic.

* * *

"I brought your tea in, sir," Wendy called from the door. 

Joker looked up and smiled slightly.

"Thank-you, Wendy."

He returned his attention to the documents in front of him, and then looked up, startled, at a pained squeak.

"Tea's a bit hot," she explained sadly, clutching her hand, scalded and dripping.

She smiled self-consciously as he laughed, and then asked hopefully.

"Kiss it better?"

After a moment, he stood, came around the desk, took her hand and kissed it lightly.

She blushed brightly, unable to fight back a slightly giddy grin, and turned to leave him in peace.

A sudden startled shout made her turn back.

He grimaced in pain, hand tightly over the bruise already forming on his hip from the sharp corner of his desk.

"Who left that desk there?" she demanded, playfully stern.

He frowned, then smiled, eyes glinting a little wickedly.

"Kiss it better?"

She smiled placidly, and the promise in the smile made his eyes glint a little more.

"Maybe later…"

* * *

End Notes: Okay, so it was cute to me. :D 


	6. The Easiest Thing Possible

The Easiest Thing Possible

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Timeline: Post-series.

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Summary: A tale of woe and one exceedingly bad dye job. Rife with silliness, and random and malicious humiliation of Mr. Joker

* * *

Joker stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, an expression of horror and deepest loathing froze on his face. After a stunned moment, he very carefully and deliberately set his comb down on the dark, smooth granite of the countertop, and then gave his eyes a quick, vigorous rub with the towel hanging around his neck (and smelling strongly of ammonia and an unpleasant cocktail of other chemicals), in the hopes that the aforementioned eyes had deceived him.

Alas, no such luck.

Well. There was only one thing to be done in a situation like this, and Joker wasted no time in doing it.

He leaned slightly out the bathroom door.

"Wendy!"

The sound of a light footfall grew nearer, and a cheery voice drifted towards him.

"What seems to be the…trouble…sir?"

Her words drifted off into a stunned silence as she emerged from her bedroom, just across the hall, and caught sight of him.

"My hair seems to be _pink_, Wendy," Joker replied, his tone containing nothing but pleasantness, even as his eyes narrowed accusingly at her.

"So it does," Wendy murmured, dropping her eyes to hide their dancing. "Bubblegum pink, no less."

"Yes; bubblegum pink," he repeated, mouth tight as he caught a hint of a smile playing about hers despite her greatest efforts to fight it back. "And as you were the one most recently near my hair with a colouring product, I wondered if you might enlighten me as to _why_ it is currently bubblegum pink."

"Honestly, Mr. Carpenter, I have _no_ idea," the blonde replied helplessly, pushing past him and into the bathroom, and then sifting through the wastebasket for the earlier discarded box of L'Oreal Excellence Crème in Ultra-Light Ash Blonde and examining it one last time to be sure she hadn't bought the wrong colour in a state of half-awareness. "I did exactly as the instructions said!"

"You gave me the impression that you were _good_ at this," he said sulkily, crossing his arms as strands of pink tickled his nose.

"I never said that!" she protested hotly. "_I_ don't colour my hair! This is the first time I've done this, and if I've made a mess of it, it was probably because _your _grousing about the _indignity_ of dyeing your hair made me nervous!"

"Which resulted in my ending up with hair something like—"

"Like Strawberry Shortcake?" Wendy suggested helpfully, dissolving the next second into helpless giggles as he ran one hand back over the lovely mass of short pink hair, and then frowned sternly at her.

"You're having no end of fun with this, aren't you?" he noted resentfully as she hopped up to sit on the counter. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you did this on purpose."

"What, do you think I _wanted_ to live with Strawberry Shortcake himself?"

"Oh, stop that," he ordered severely before dropping down to sit on the edge of the tub, and resting his head in his hands. "It'll clash horribly with my blazer…"

"I don't know," Wendy said, tone pure sweet innocence, one finger to her lip in deep consideration. "I think green and pink look lovely together."

He his glare turned from freezing to fiery.

"Wendy, if you don't stop that, I'll physically restrain you and dye _your_ hair pink!"

"I hardly think we need _two_ Strawberry Shortcakes, living in the same house," she said in a tone of mock sternness, laughing as he picked up a powder pink shower pouf and threw it at her. Then her expression grew sober. "Honestly, though, I don't know _what _could have happened. Dyeing pure white hair is about the easiest thing possible."

"Well. Obviously, _the easiest thing possible_ is a little beyond you."

She crossed her arms huffily.

"I didn't do it on purpose," she muttered, glaring at him, "but I'm starting to wish I _had_."

"Perhaps this is a sign," Joker said with a sort of baffled helplessness. "This might be the punishment of all who choose to reject the white hairs of wisdom. Clearly, that freak accident involving all those green tubes and books was not so freak as I thought it. It was fate that I be given white hair, and by trying to reverse it through artificial means, I have visited upon me the wrath of Mr. Gentleman."

"Or perhaps," Wendy suggested, looking up sheepishly from the tiny empty bottle of hair colour, "the manufacturers put the wrong colour in the wrong box. I did wonder why on earth the box said Ultra-Light Ash Blonde, but the bottle said Bubblegum Blitz."

He stared at her incredulously for a moment, the pose he had just finished striking to better deliver his dramatic speech gradually faltering, and she wondered at the back of her mind if she had ever seen him so utterly speechless before.

"Bubblegum Blitz," he repeated, utterly floored.

"That's what the bottle says," Wendy confirmed cheerfully, tossing the tiny plastic container at him.

"I am currently wearing a particularly violent variety of sweet on my head?"

"I suppose you could look at it like that."

"Oh, for God's sake," he muttered viciously.

"What do you want to do, Sir?"

"Do?" he repeated, annoyed. "Well, to start, _you_ had best begin praying that this comes out."

"It won't," she informed him, wide-eyed and serious. "My friend used this brand, and it stays in forever."

"Then what do we do?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Well," she began, gazing at him thoughtfully, "we could bleach that colour out and start over."

"Lovely," he said dryly before starting from the bathroom.

"Sir?" she called after him, hopping down from the counter. "Where are you going?"

"To find a hat," came the reply.

She frowned.

"Why? Who'll see you inside the house? Only me, and I won't laugh at you _that_ much…"

"I'll be coming with you, dear," he said through gritted teeth.

Wendy stared at him in astonishment.

"You will? Why?"

He stopped and turned.

"You don't honestly think I'm going to trust you to get it right after you just gave me the worst possible hair colour for a man, do you, Wendy?"

She glared at his retreating back.

"I wonder if the store sells any _green_ hair dye…"

* * *

End Notes: Whoo! The Revenge of Wendy! Hey, it had to happen sooner or later, right? Who would've thought it would be so…childish? ;o)


	7. The Blind Date That Wasn't

The Blind Date That Wasn't

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Summary: Joker is surprisingly gullible. So is Wendy. Somehow, this leads to Teh Hawt Villainsexxors. A fic request from Bezo, for my ROD: The Dating Game fiasco.

* * *

Timeline: Mid-TV

* * *

It had been a long day.

Not a particularly _bad_ day, per se, but just a long, exhausting day filled with scheming and machinations.

And meetings.

Lots of meetings.

Exceedingly boring meetings.

When Mr. Carpenter had voiced this complaint, amid numerous yawns, to his faithful and – usually – sweet-natured secretary Wendy, she had given a small smile that looked as though it wanted to be a giggle but didn't dare, and reminded him mildly that he was the one who ran the meetings.

Therefore, she had concluded airily, if they were boring, it was his own fault.

This had led to Mr. Carpenter very decidedly and pointedly Ignoring her for the rest of the day.

Even when she had come to pass on a message from the new employee, Phil about a business dinner that had been scheduled at the last minute, he had carefully absorbed every detail without giving any indication that he was listening at all.

He had, however, relented and replied when she had begun to repeat the entire message in the most prim, dainty, and refined bellow he had ever heard.

Hmph. If she hadn't spent the entire day being such an insufferable little brat, he might well have considered bringing her along tonight, if only to ensure that he had someone around whose idea of fascinating conversation was to stare adoringly at him whilst he related his life story.

That, incidentally, was Joker's idea of fascinating conversation, too. Although, the topic of exactly what was in those _Silk and Satin_ bags that she came back from some lunch-hour shopping with held considerable appeal.

But not as something to be discussed at a business dinner.

And so, with a heroic effort, he resolutely tucked images of convoluted lace and satin contraptions – and a few half-formed ones of a certain blonde modelling them – away for later, and pushed his way through the door into the restaurant's back room.

* * *

It had been a long day.

First, she had woken up, which had been bad enough; then she had been compelled by the continuous beeping of her alarm clock to actually _get _up.

Nothing good could come of such a thing.

And naturally, nothing good _had_ come of it.

Before she had been at work an entire hour, Wendy had been subjected to the fate that every woman who has ever worked in an office whilst single, with several other women, also single, invariably must face.

She had been roped into a blind date.

Looking back on the conversation, she would have been hard-pressed to tell anyone how it had happened. Her vision had simply clouded over for a time…the voices of those around her growing dim…the sound of blood rushing in her ears overpowering everything else…

And when it had all cleared, she had been left holding a little bag containing what that infuriating Danielle girl apparently considered to be "THE perfect Date Outfit", as that same infuriating Danielle had called back to Wendy to be at the restaurant at 7:30.

Wearing the outfit, she had thought to add at the last second.

A pity, Wendy had thought, bidding all hopes of simply dropping the silly thing somewhere and simply going in a bathrobe a sad farewell.

Nevertheless, one had to keep an open mind about these things.

Maybe this mysterious man would be hot.

And it wouldn't be a _bad_ experience, spending the evening with a man who would be, at the outset at least, actually acknowledging her existence.

How long _that _would last was anyone's guess.

* * *

Three seconds later found two startled and borderline horrified people staring at one another.

"S-so…are you here for a…" She choked slightly over the words. "…a blind date, too?"

"A blind date?" he repeated with a contemptuous sniff. "I'm here for a _meeting_, actually. The same one you gave me a message about earlier today?"

She did not blush noticeably at this, but turned away.

"Oh. Eh, right."

He sighed in distinct annoyance as he pulled out the unoccupied of the two chairs set at the table. The slender glass vase containing a rose of sweet pale pink caught his eye, and became the unfortunate object of his icy scorn.

However, as both the rose and the vase were, indeed, inanimate, neither seemed to properly appreciate just how devastated they _ought_ to be by this.

"I would have thought you'd look into this a bit before blithely sending along a message."

"Oh, for God's sake," she muttered, folding her arms and glaring more petulantly than he'd seen her in a long while.

Perhaps the half-full glass of wine in front of her was to blame for that. He seemed to recall that she was always early enough for meetings of any sort that she would have ample time to become bored enough to begin sipping away at the vibrant red liquid that she'd never really liked anyway.

Always said it would be far better if it was tea.

There, he had to agree. If a beverage was not steaming hot and served in a teacup, preferably by the girl sitting across from him and glaring daggers, he had relatively little interest.

As he continued to muse upon the subject of how this unexpected rendezvous would be far more pleasant if there were tea involved, she continued.

"I didn't really expect that Phil would _do_ something this silly – he _seemed_ like he had half a brain at the interview."

This earned nearly a full smile.

"True, I suppose. Still…" Here, he trailed off as she stood and reached for his overcoat, and the full impact of something distinctly white and lacy and borderline transparent hit him. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"It's a _blouse_," she replied edgily.

"It hasn't got a back. Or any arms."

"I've worn things like this at those bloody parties you keep inviting everyone to at my flat because it's _the perfect place to entertain_," she mimicked rudely.

"Yes, and don't think I don't appreciate that," Joker said pleasantly, and Wendy took a brief moment to wonder if it was the use of her flat that he was appreciative of, or her revealing little party clothes. "But Wendy, what on earth convinced you to pair it with _that_?"

She looked down briefly at the leather micro-mini-skirt, and made a mental note to smack a certain tall leggy redhead tomorrow.

"It's Danielle's."

"I suppose _that_ explains _everything_," he admitted smilingly.

"I thought I would try something a little _daring_," she said sulkily.

"You look ridiculous."

She gave a sarcastic laugh.

"Well, then! Maybe I should just take it off."

At these words, partially inadvertent and due more to temper than to her actually _thinking _about what she was saying, both froze, and slowly turned to face each other.

"It seems a plan with no drawbacks to me," Joker said, infuriatingly calm. "Although, I would prefer to take it off of you myself."

"Em…should we leave first?" she asked timidly, glancing sideways at the suddenly very attentive waiter.

"Good thinking, Wendy; no need to give this poor boy a show," he replied, the words melting off into a startled cry as she seized his arm and dragged him bodily from the room.

He smiled to himself as he flapped merrily in the breeze behind her,

"I don't know that I entirely approve of all this, but her enthusiasm _is_ touching."

* * *

"So," Wendy began several hours later, propping herself up on her elbows and dragging the blankets up higher with one hand, "does this mean you're going to forgive Phil and Danielle and all those other crazies for inventing a meeting?"

Running one hand down her back and trying to push the blankets away, he smiled.

"Oh, I've already had them…taken care of."

She blinked.

"Does that mean that we can expect to have to conduct more job interviews in the near future?"

"I'm afraid so," he said with a sorrowful shake of his head.

She rolled her eyes, then stopped and frowned.

"Hold on; when did you have to…take care of half your staff?"

"While you were fetching the car," he replied.

"What!"

"Wendy, I am nothing if not ruthlessly efficient."

"Well. I'm glad you're not 'ruthlessly efficient' in _everything_."

He laughed, and pushed her back down against the pillow.

Several minutes later, he looked up, away from the engaging and extremely enjoyable task of seeing what sorts of interesting noises he could get by kissing her where, and frowned accusingly.

"Hold on; why on earth did _you_ agree to go on a blind date?"

* * *

End Notes: As requested by Bezo, cue the Degrassi theme as the frame freezes on both our evil little lovebirds making the stupidest faces possible. :D


	8. Practical Uses

Supply Closets and Their Many Practical Uses in the Everyday Life of a Modern Woman

* * *

Summary: An on-the-spot drabble featuring Wendy's annoyance at working overtime, and the creative ways that Joker has to help her overcome it. Cute, silly, pseudo-smutty.

* * *

Timeline: Slightly post-OVA. By a week or two. Something like that.

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night. As such, Wendy was rather miffed with the entire concept of being at work, instead of at home, spending a bit of quality time with her pillows.

And now Mr. Joker, the great big...not-so-smart-sometimes person, had sent her to the supply closet for paperclips.

Which there very decidedly weren't, in this particular closet.

"Wonderful," she pouted, turning to leave and already steeling herself against the fatigue-induced urge to violently pummel her boss upon his inevitable insistence that there _were_ paperclips, and she just wasn't looking hard enough.

Not to mention, the inevitable box of paperclips nestled in one corner of the supply closet, at the very back, that would take an almost animate delight in proving her to be a careless little airhead once again.

"Right, then," she sighed. "Off I go."

But strangely enough, before she could take more than a step and a half towards the door, she found herself pushed roughly back into something with a decidedly sharp edge, and then lifted up and slid onto the aforementioned something - most likely the photo copier, she thought hazily as two decidedly friendly hands began to make short work of her hastily-donned work clothes.

"Mr. Joker!" she exclaimed in something between delight and shocked horror as her eyes stopped clouding over in response to some of the extremely nice things he was doing. "I'm never going to find the paper clips at _this_ rate!"

He looked up, exasperated, a pair of red lacy undies dangling from his ear.

"Haven't you ever been on the receiving end of a clever ruse, Wendy?"

* * *

End Notes: Hehehe! I wrote this for my fiancé, who likes this brand of cute/naughty fluff featuring Mr. Joker and his faithful secretary. Almost as much as I do. XD


	9. Daybreak

Daybreak

* * *

Summary: Two lovers share a moment. Joker/Wendy. Fluff.

* * *

Timeline: Mid-TV, or thereabouts.

* * *

Early morning. Pale, watery sunlight spilling through a gap in the heavy curtains of his bedroom window.

She stirs, swats at the ray of light falling into her eyes in half-aware annoyance, and then wakes.

A faint sound of sleep-warmed skin against the fabric of the bed sheets as she turns over and watches him sleep.

Lips slightly parted, pale hair glowing softly in the cool early morning sunlight. Sheets slipping down to pool at his waist. Almost translucent lids shut over normally sharp and constantly attentive green eyes.

One of the rare moments that he manages to look this utterly peaceful.

This must be corrected immediately, she decides, snuggling close against his shoulder.

"Wake up!" she commands in words slightly slurred from recent sleep, shaking his other shoulder gently.

His breathing stays rhythmic, and she can feel his chest rising and falling beneath her.

She shakes him again.

"Wake up!"

An incoherent murmur, and one hand lands lightly on her hair. When she looks up, however, his eyes are still shut and he is still snoring slightly.

"Wake up, or I'm going to kiss you," she warns drowsily.

No response.

"I will!"

Nothing.

"Alright," she says, crawling up over him until her forehead rests against his. "I'm going to do it. With tongue and everything!"

Still no response, although a less sleepy, more attentive woman might notice that his eyes were shut a little too tightly to be entirely natural.

"And I've got morning breath!"

When her dire threats are once again met with no reply, the young woman shakes her head, reflecting that, well, he's _asked_ for it, and leans forward to close the gap between them.

Somewhere between her lips firmly on his and her hands sliding back into his hair, she finds herself lying flat on her back, startled and winded.

He laughs, deep and slightly throaty from sleep, and leans closely over her, pressing her back into the mattress as she blinks up at him and fails utterly to hold back an expectant smile.

Hands already running lightly over satin smooth skin, intent upon continuing where they left off last night, he brushes his lips against hers.

"And good morning to you too, dear."

* * *

End Notes: It was cute to me. :D


	10. Street Scene

Street Scene

* * *

Notes: Set slightly post-OAV. As will probably be reasonably obvious. :)

* * *

The little blonde captivated Mrs. Wilcox instantly.

There was nothing overtly interesting about a mass of thick, longish pale fluffy hair, or a tallish, wiry frame beneath a little sky-blue summery trench coat, or very large, very sweet blue eyes smudged underneath with dark shadows that even long lashes could not counteract.

It was something of a hobby of hers, this people-watching thing; she had picked it up from a magazine somewhere, and really, it could be a fascinating business.

But, with a very clear and unpleasant memory of her own girlhood, and a family that seemed to be fated against granddaughters and instead had given her six rowdy grandsons that she loved almost to the point of a physical ache, young ladies such as this little pixie-girl rarely interested her _all_ that much.

Nevertheless, she found herself carefully setting down her coffee and leaning forward over the small table of wrought iron, eyes fixed intently on the slim figure hurrying down the street.

Clearly, _something_ was upsetting the girl. Even from across the street, and through a pane of glass reflecting the mellow midafternoon spring sunlight, Mrs. Wilcox would aver that there were tears in the little blonde's eyes – she could just _tell_.

And, as a tall, slim young man, starkly pale and with fair hair nearly to match, came hurrying down the street as quickly as _dignity_ would allow, the cause became all too clear.

The poor little thing…probably her first row, with her first _real_ true love forever.

What on earth were they fighting over?

From the way the man was pursuing her, the fault had to be his; _no_ man with that aura of confidence that bordered dangerously on _arrogant_, and that distinct hint of indifference to anything that didn't directly benefit him in an immediate and profound way would ever attempt to seek out and console the special lady in his life unless he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the fault was his.

Usually, not even then.

So. Clearly, he was at fault for the argument, and it was one that stood to jeopardize his personal comfort and happiness with the sheer magnitude of how much she had been upset. What, then?

Had he accidentally stepped on her favourite pet?

Alienated several close friends all at once with an off-colour joke?

Ah! That was it! He had another lover, behind her back!

All at once outraged with men everywhere, Mrs. Wilcox gave the unfortunate gentleman at the table nearest hers such a blistering glare that he shrank back into his overcoat, hastily ending his conversation and tucking his phone back into his pocket.

Once this stranger had been satisfactorily chastened, the old lady returned her attention to the young couple across the street. The man had caught up with the poor girl, catching her by the arm and pulling her about to face him, and then out of the flow of Sunday afternoon traffic and over to a set of heavy stone steps. He spoke hastily to the little blonde, who remained stony-faced and petulant, arms tightly crossed and posture tense and unforgiving.

He brought one hand up to stroke her cheek gently.

Oh, the cad! Leaning closer, whispering to her that she was the only woman for him, all the while planning his next rendezvous with some hard-faced, mean-natured shrew, her only redeeming quality her willingness to hop into bed with anything in trousers!

Surely, the little dear wouldn't be _fooled_ by such utterings!

Apparently, Mrs. Wilcox decided with a mournful sigh of one who has lost all hope for the world, she would.

The old lady watched the couple sadly, the girl nuzzling forgivingly into the man's touch, bright and smiling and played for a fool. The poor thing. His hand slid down to cup her chin gently, and big, bright blue eyes fixed with incredulous joy on his face as he murmured something and then leaned down to kiss her deeply.

And with that, Beth Wilcox thought, climbing from her chair and leaving a half-full cup of cooled coffee behind her as a testament that she was through with this _people-watching_ nonsense for today, another soul was lost.

* * *

"For God's sake, Wendy, come back here!"

"Leave me alone!"

"It was only a suggestion!"

"It was a _horrible_ suggestion!"

"Every suggestion seems horrible when you don't agree with it, though, doesn't it?"

"This one was _truly_ horrible, though. Honestly, Mr. Joker, how could you?"

"I think it's high time, Wendy; you're looking a bit shaggy."

A pout.

"I think it's _pretty_."

A grin hidden by a slim, pale hand.

"Of course it is. But skill can always improve upon natural beauty."

A hardened, stiffened resolve almost audibly melting. A sigh.

"I just don't want to do something so _drastic_, Sir. Can't I do the trim, and then decide?"

"You can do as you wish. It _is_ your hair, after all. But this would be far easier to care for. And besides which, it would be stunning. A nice, modern, choppy cut, just long enough to brush against your cheek…"

"Well…maybe I'll think about it. Em…Mr. Joker?"

"Yes?"

"There's a lady across the street, watching us."

"Ah. So there is. Well, then, let's give her something to watch, shall we?"

* * *


	11. Stargazer

Stargazer

--------------------------------------------------------------

Notes: Mid- or post-OAV. Written for 101kisses theme "starlight". Cutesy fluff, not so much with the silly. Okay, maybe with the silly, too. XD

--------------------------------------------------------------

"What on earth are you looking at?"

She didn't hear him come up behind her, was half-asleep in the soothing quiet of his office, back early from a mid-night rest break made necessary by pressing concerns that could not be left until morning, and jumps a little before she sends him a blushing little smile over her shoulder.

"Just the stars."

He peers out the window, coming close enough that she can feel his breath at her hair and he can smell the faint sweet scent of raspberry and vanilla in her shampoo.

"Wishing on a star?" he asks teasingly, and laughs when she blushes again.

"Maybe."

When she peeks over her shoulder like that, she becomes sweet, childlike, alluring, elfin, and mocking all in one, and with the care and hesitation of affection deeper than friendship recently realized, but the firmness and confidence of years of trust deeper than love, he turns her by the shoulders.

After a quick glance back over his shoulder, old habit, to ensure that no one else is roaming the building at this ungodly hour, he lifts her chin and lets his lips find hers softly.

A long moment later, as they break apart breathless and overjoyed and embarrassed, he smirks a little.

"I'll leave you to your stargazing now."

"That's alright," she says shyly, reaching hesitantly for his shoulder again. "I already got my wish."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	12. Distraction Solitaire

Distraction Solitaire

------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes: Set pre- or mid-TV.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Wendy has always hated Solitaire.

Although her father was able to teach her how the game worked when she was a little slip of eight years old, he was never able to impart why one would bother. Card games, she thought even then, were social occasions. Like Hearts, or Go Fish, or Poker.

Or, if it's with Joker, she thinks now, Strip Poker.

The card game by itself is nothing; it's just a nice diversion to add some spice to the conversation.

So why, she's always wondered, would anyone play cards _by themselves_?

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and when she spends five minutes, then ten, then half an hour, and then an hour at Joker's flat, waiting for him to spare her more than a glance and then only when she's being _disruptive_, she hunts out the little deck of cards he keeps in his side table drawer and settles before the coffee table for a match versus herself.

This ought to catch his attention, she thinks hopefully as she deliberately overlooks three extremely obvious moves and starts flipping over the cards left in the deck.

There's nothing he hates more than a botched Solitaire match.

--------------------------------------------------------

Ten minutes later, she sneaks a quick, stealthy glance at him as his eyes linger on her card game, and purposely overlooks _four of diamonds on the five of spades_.

When his eyes flit to her, she returns her full attention to the game, and starts absently unbuttoning the front of her little striped shirt-dress down to the top of the thick dark-brown leather belt.

He smirks briefly, takes in the baby-blue lace of her bra that matches the stripes on her dress all but perfectly, but then returns to his paperwork, and she pouts.

Of course, she knows what's going on: he doesn't entirely like the threat that she poses to his self-control now that they're like this sometimes, and he's determined to prove to himself, and to remind her, that he is and remains in charge.

Ordinarily, she lets him keep that impression, because as she airily tells a disapproving friend regularly, she wants a _man_, not a _lap dog_.

But damn it, he made a promise tonight by bringing her home with him. She has plenty of other things she could be doing than providing a suitable temptation just because he's feeling uneasy lately about his powers of resistance. She doesn't come here, she thinks darkly, glaring at him and then pouting harder when he merely smiles, for the décor.

She'll give him another fifteen minutes, she decides, and then it's time for the lap-dance.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Alright, maybe not, she decides fifteen minutes later as her courage abruptly fails her.

He'd probably just bring it up at work, like last time.

She's purposely left the four of diamonds off the five of spades, and she's still skipping obvious plays whenever she sees them, but so far, nothing.

Resolutely, she unhooks and peels off her belt and drapes it carefully over the coffee table, before unbuttoning her dress the rest of the way, brushing the fabric absently out of the way, and hugging her knees to her chest while she continued to ponder her game carefully.

His eyes rest briefly on her, and when he rises from his chair, she fights back a smug little grin with some difficulty.

Until he bypasses her entirely and heads to the bookshelf.

Pouting again, she returns to her match.

------------------------------------------------------------

This, she thinks angrily another half hour later, is just getting _silly_. Throwing down the little bundle of cards on the table, she gets up until she's on her knees, and turns around until she's got her back to him.

Then, making very sure to hike her skirt up to her waist first, she slowly and carefully peels off her nylons, pushing them into a puffy little ball beneath the coffee table, and stretches languorously, like a cat, cheek pressed to the floor, arms extended above her head, posterior on excellent display.

The next moment, the _thwack_ of a book being very quickly and forcefully shut, and the _thud_ of it landing with equal force on the table.

She makes a noise of delight as a slim, cool hand runs up and down the back of her leg, and then over the curve of her bottom, untroubled by any undies in the way, since she's wearing the ones from Sylvie, who considers any actual _fabric_ over the bum sheer wastefulness.

One arm slides under her, across her collarbones, and drags her back up against him.

"I'm sorry, Sir, am I distracting you?"

"Not at all," he laughs kindly against her shoulder, although that prodding at the small of her back when she grids against him tells rather a different story. "But I'm afraid you'll pull a muscle if you keep posing like that."

She grins, and twists around in his arms.

"I'm touched that you're so concerned."

He laughs again, one hand already working at the clasp of the lacy blue garment.

"Well, since you're clearly in the mood to play, you might as well remain in good condition for it. But first," he adds, glaring slightly as she shivers with the sensation of his hand trailing over her spine, "go put the red four on the black five before I lose my mind".

As soon as she sets down the card, she finds herself seized again, and shortly before all thought is driven entirely away, she manages a smug little internal smile.

_I win_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

End Notes: Massive rewriiiiiiiiiite! Party-time!


	13. Summer Heat

Summer Heat

* * *

Notes: Set post-TV. Mildly angstish fluff.

* * *

The past two weeks have been nearly unbearable.

She's always loved the summer, loved the heady warmth and the smell of sun-baked earth and grasses, even loved the intense, drowsy heat of a mid-summer heat wave and staying out in the sun until she could barely keep her eyes open and then coming back in to take a nice long nap under the pretence of a good book.

But this is something else entirely. The heat that would normally wrap comfortingly around her like a favourite old blanket or a warm bath is now stifling, and she wonders if she's been breathing at all since summer began.

Far worse than the heat is the restlessness. It might not be so bad, if she could escape, during the worst of it, to outdoors. But this sort of intense heat always gives him a headache, and she learned very quickly that if she's gone too long, he'll be angry. Far more than she would have expected. Whether out of any absurd _attachment_ or just because misery loves company, she can never really tell, but either way, she hates to leave him alone while she goes outside to play.

That's why the one and only time she _really_ yelled at him was when he tried to order her to leave, go accept her little penalty for following a madman with the rest of the Special Operations unit, and get on with her life.

That was also the only time that joy, or pride, or gratitude, or anything other than anger and unwilling guilt has flashed into his eyes in the entire time they've been here.

But he's still never brought it up again, and she's glad.

Even though it's been far more of a shock than it should, just how difficult it's been, in a house with a man currently deeply in hate with the entire world and taking it out on anyone who happened to be nearby. Particularly when she's the only person nearby.

Of course, he has every reason to be moody and angry and hopelessly bleak most of his time. She could easily list all the reasons that their failure was for the best after all, but she knows that telling him the _plain and simple truth_ will not make him think that she is bold and fascinating.

Even if she suspects that something in what he's been through has made him realize the truth for himself.

Instead, he'll close in on himself even more tightly, and she'll be as alone as she was at first, back before he began responding to the stream of incessant chatter she kept up to break the silence. And she's so desperately, unbelievably, pitifully happy that he's responding now that she wouldn't risk the privilege of being all that he has now for anything.

Just because he's suffered the worst of it, though, doesn't mean that she hasn't gone through it too. Lucky him, able to forget that.

Or that this weather isn't still absolutely unbearable. Lucky him, able to forget that, too.

It seems that his patience with complaints about the heat is no greater than his patience with her wide-eyed terror and hesitation with him when he first came back to her and he finally had to threaten sharply to hit her if she didn't stop scurrying around like that.

He lifts his eyes from the page of something heavy, dusty, and yellowed with age, and thanks her coldly for her constant and helpful weather updates. But before she can annoy him further with a flustered apology that she feels no desire to give right now anyway, his expression changes as his eyes move over the thin, nearly transparent white cotton clinging to her and the lacy little underthings she's paired it with to just barely keep from taking him up on his earlier invitation to _roam around naked, if it'll make you happy and keep you quiet._

"Why," he asks slowly and with a hint of a smile after three months of seeing his mouth drawn and frowning, "are you wearing my undershirt?"

Cheeks already pink from the heat and damp with sweat blush more brightly, and she draws her knees to her chest, overwhelmed by a silly, girlish delight at his eyes fixed in fascination on long, dusky, satinsmooth legs, even though she's broken one of his fastidious house rules. _Don't put your feet up on the sofa, please._

She gives him an exaggerated pout.

"It's too _hot_ for anything I have with me – they're all winter things. I didn't think you'd mind if I borrowed this."

His smile grows and turns just wicked enough to make her knees feel a little shaky – in the good way for the first time in ages.

"Didn't I say to roam around naked if the heat was too much for you?"

She toys with the hem of his undershirt and focuses on making her expression serenely angelic, since she's no good at _sultry_.

"If you want, I could…"

He laughs; she nearly faints, but feels strangely composed when he leans over the couch and moves to kiss her, stopping just as their lips brush together.

"I think I'll need that shirt back immediately."

* * *


	14. Of SuperSpies and KittyGirls

Of Superspies and Kitty-Girls

------------------------------------------------------------

Summary: In which Joker and Wendy squabble over how to deal with an unexpected, but very famous intruder.

Timeline: Mid-TV.

Keywords: Absolute, excruciating, shameless silliness

Rating: PGish

------------------------------------------------------------

"Ah, Mr. Bond!" Joker noted with perfectly understated evil glee. "We've been waiting for you."

Wendy, although dealing with a very full schedule of cuddling contentedly into her boss's lap and making happy little noises he rubbed slow, gentle circles at the place just behind her ear, looked up.

"Have we?"

He chuckled into her little white kitty-ear headband.

"Well, we haven't just been sitting here for our health."

She nodded, then cuddled back against her shoulder and continued to completely ignore the nobly posing tuxedo-clad fellow in the middle of the room. It was entirely possible that Mr. Joker had told her earlier about their visitor, and she had simply forgotten it – it had been an awfully strange day, after all.

First, she had spent the morning overseeing the construction of the giant, complex, easily escapable death machine that Joker had become suddenly so crazy to possess. Their contractors had, of course, been late, stupid, smelly, functionally illiterate, and had spent the first half of the morning building the bloody thing upside down. A firm Talking-To later, complete with a few tiny bullet holes in the wall and a smoking gun in her hand, they had settled down to work and finished the damn thing, although unfortunately not before the experience had all but finished her sanity.

Then, just as she'd been heading out for lunch – _definitely_ a liquid lunch today, she'd decided with a weary rub of her eyes – he'd called her back in to give a bizarre and borderline offensive order that she set aside her perfectly serviceable lavender skirt suit for a _white fur bikini_, of all things. Complete with furry white knee-high boots, _and_ ears, and a _tail_, for the love of God!

When questioned, with the use of perhaps a few more shocking profanities than his (usually) mild-mannered little Wendy tended to use in everyday conversation, Joker had only sighed and said that even if there had been time to acquire a nice, well-trained Persian cat on such short notice, he was still utterly unable to abide the creatures, so he was improvising as best he could.

And now, he had added with a tiny grin once she had finished wriggling out of her clothes and into the tiny scraps of fur, would she please be a good girl and spin, so he could take a closer look and make sure that the new uniform fit her from every angle?

A delightful hour and a half had followed, during which Wendy had wondered, very briefly annoyed before her mind ceased coherent operation at all, why on earth he had insisted that she struggle into the silly thing if he was just going to take it off and strew it all over the floor again.

However, by the time their private uniform consultation had come to an end, not a trace of the morning's tension or the afternoon's annoyance had remained in her, melted blissfully away to leave her a boneless little heap on the surface of his desk. After watching her several unsuccessful attempts to stand, Joker had laughed fondly, gathered her up into his arms…

…and fallen promptly backward to the floor.

Fifteen minutes later had seen Joker seated comfortably at his desk – which now sat proudly in the very center of a cavernous room, which also contained the Gentleman books to the right and the gigantic, complex, easily escapable death machine to the left – while one of the contractors from earlier settled his comatose secretary carefully into his lap.

When the man's hand had lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary at her fur-clad backside, Joker had glowered darkly.

"Note to self," she had heard him mutter as the contractor left. "As soon as Wendy's feeling up to it, have him shot."

In her state of utterly blissful relaxation, even the knowledge of yet another possible investigation into the mysterious death of someone who had coincidentally recently annoyed Mr. Joker hadn't fazed her. In fact, this new visitor's arrival and Mr. Joker's assertion that they had been waiting for him was the fist time she'd acknowledged the outside world in close to half an hour.

"I've heard a lot about you, Joker," the dark-haired fellow was meanwhile saying.

"Oh? And what have you heard?"

"Enough to know that someone's got to stop you."

"Odd," Wendy muttered into Joker's lapel. "I heard that Mr. Bond was _witty_ and _clever_."

"Sadly, Wendy, a character is only as witty as his author," Joker sighed regretfully. "Which, in this case, has doomed the poor man from the start."

Wendy nodded in grim understanding. Bloody authors. A _kitty outfit_. Really.

"I don't know; this one's wardrobe design is certainly inspired," the tuxedo-clad man in the middle of the room said with a charming smile, the dim light of the enormous room somehow glinting off his teeth.

Joker's eyes narrowed.

"Alright, I think that's quite enough talk."

Wendy, who had become something of a Jokersexual in recent past and thus found herself completely unmoved by what had to be the first time in at least two years she'd been hit on, nodded her wholehearted agreement.

Maybe this Mr. Bond person had only been here for a quick visit after all, and would now go away and let her enjoy the unexpected wealth of cuddles that had befallen her.

It seemed, though, that Fate had other plans.

"Can't…reach," Joker noted, somewhere between a grunt and a mutter, stretching one leg as far as possible and poking aimlessly about beneath his desk with the toe of his immaculately polished dark brown loafer.

Nothing daunted, he continued to stretch and poke, despite the noises of protest from his makeshift feline as she was shifted and bounced this way and that. Finally, with a sigh of defeat, he gave up.

"Wendy, kick that switch for me, will you? It's away at the back. Yes, that's the one," he concluded pleasantly as a soft click sounded, along with the sound of heavy boots far off in the distance.

"What does it do, Sir?" she asked curiously.

"Now, now, Wendy, I don't want to spoil the surprise," he chuckled, just as the doors burst open and heavily armed attack goons spilled into the cavernous room from every direction.

"Ah. It calls in reinforcements," Wendy surmised flatly.

"And the reinforcements will subdue Mr. Bond so that we can…er, test out my new device."

"The easily escapable one, you mean," the impromptu kitty-girl sighed amid the sounds of the battle going on a mere ten feet away.

"Yes, but when it _does_ work, it _really_ works," Joker objected with a cheesy, advertisingesque grin.

"And the rest of the time," Wendy sighed, rolling her eyes as Joker ducked and pulled her down with him just as an attack goon flew overhead.

Straightening, Joker laughed.

"You worry too much, my dear."

She made an annoyed noise, chin in her hand.

"Of course; you have everything under control. And I suppose that's why he's just finished off the last of the attack force."

"Oh, dear," Joker frowned, eyes sweeping over the cavernous room and the brand-new attack-forced-shaped area rugs that now littered the floor, a triumphant James Bond in the middle. "Wendy, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to take care of this for me."

"Alright, then," she sighed reluctantly, climbing off his lap.

"I have no objections. As long as you promise to take good care of me," the dark-haired man chuckled - and for one absurd moment, Wendy could have sworn that he'd winked - before withdrawing a tiny mirror and a comb and attending to his hair, slightly mussed from the battle.

"Oh, you won't have to worry about that," Wendy murmured, glaring briefly and fishing out the tiny gun stashed in the bottom half of her silly fur thing.

"Er, Wendy, hold on just one moment," Joker requested nervously.

"Don't worry, Sir, you know I'm good at this," she assured him, quickly drawing and firing the itty bitty weapon while the man was engrossed in his own reflection and the interesting ways that it changed as he combed and styled.

"NOOOOOOOO!" Darth Vader howled from somewhere else entirely.

"Wendy! What did you do?!" Joker demanded frantically, up from his chair in an instant as the man fell abruptly to the floor, comb and mirror and all, a neat little hole at the back of his head. "You've just shot James Bond!"

Wendy watched him expectantly, waiting for the explanation to continue.

"And...?" she finally prompted.

"In the back of the head!" he added, verging on a wail.

"But...why is that bad?"

Joker sputtered incoherently for a brief moment, then took a long, cleansing breath.

"Wendy," he began, voice clipped. "There are certain codes of conduct that one must observe when fighting a rampaging hero of Mr. Bond's fame."

"Codes of conduct?" she echoed flatly. "He _broke in_. And you _told_ me to take care of him."

"With your hitherto unnoticed, yet absolutely dazzling combative skill!" Joker finished, sagging in despair as a quick check for the former spy's pulse showed nothing.

She stared blankly.

"When did you have _that_ installed, then? Because I can't say I've ever noticed it..."

"Every diabolically sexy henchwoman has them!"

"I thought I was supposed to be your _cat_," she muttered resentfully, nevertheless hoping uneasily that he wouldn't be too angry to scratch her ears again later.

"You're very adaptable, Wendy; that much is clear. Nevertheless, we'll have to act quickly."

"W-what are we doing, exactly?"

Joker climbed stiffly to his feet.

"I'll have to make some modifications, but I believe we can use the machines to revive him."

She stared blankly.

"But…you wanted him dead. And now he is."

He shot her a frosty glare.

"You've completely disregarded the proper etiquette. You can't just shoot him in the head; he's James Bloody Bond!"

_He certainly is_, an impish corner of Wendy's mind cackled as she eyed the pool of red forming on the ground beneath him. But she quickly shook this off and went back to outraged on behalf of women everywhere as something occurred to her.

"Hold on; proper etiquette? You were completely ready to just shoot Yomiko out of hand for less than this – why is there special etiquette for some pompous jackass who sauntered in because he was bored this afternoon?!"

"Yomiko's a woman," Joker said dismissively. "If a woman is going to so utterly forget her place that she decides to embark upon acts of heroism on her own, she can damn well take the consequences."

"You are, by far, the most disgustingly sexist man I've ever met," Wendy informed him solemnly.

"Why, thank-you," he beamed. "Now, help me move him over to the machines. There's still time to bring him back."

"…So we can kill him again," she surmised flatly.

"In the death machine!" he reiterated, annoyed.

"Why?!"

"Because we're villains! This is what villains do!"

She sighed.

"I wonder if it's too late to declare myself just sort of morally ambiguous…"

----------------------------------------


	15. Mr Joker's Magic Pants

---------------------------------------------

"Mr. Joker?"

Snapping quickly from his wonderful, rose-tinted daydream involving the Glorious Appearing of Mr. Gentleman at the end of his own personal seven-year Tribulation, the aforementioned Mr. Joker smiled kindly at the little blonde in the driver's seat, barely clad in white silk. An evening gown, she called it.

Frankly, he didn't care, just as long as her next one didn't have any arms or back, either. He was beginning to enjoy the sight, that slim, manicured hand repeatedly pushing those tiny straps back up her shoulders, and the little knot of silk at the small of her back, just before it swept back out into a – regrettably – floor-length skirt.

"Yes, Wendy?"

"Do you think that's a bad sound?"

"Which sound might that be?"

She sighed, and he could almost hear her resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"The repeated thump-thump-thump that's been going on for the last two minutes, Sir. Around the same time that the car started shaking about like a Martini in the hands of a nervous bartender."

He chuckled.

"I think someone enjoyed her first cocktail party."

"Yes, Sir, it was lovely," she said with a tight, forced little smile. "Even if I didn't get to drink anything. But in the meantime, do you think we ought to pull over?"

"I suppose we might as well," he replied, shaking his head. "It's a little dark around here. Rather deserted, too; might be a bit dangerous. But don't worry, my dear. Just keep close to me, be ready for anything, and try to keep that new gun of yours handy. Everything will be fine, and we'll be on our way home before—"

At this point, Joker happened to glance at the driver's side of the car, and stopped short when he found it empty. A quick peek outside the car revealed it to be stopped, off at the side of the narrow dirt road, with a slender silk-clad shape stomping about. He frowned. Her forehead was getting that little wrinkle in it, and her pretty, dusky rose coloured mouth seemed to be uttering some decidedly impolite things.

"Is there a problem, Wendy?" he called, leaning out the passenger door.

She stiffened, and turned slowly.

"We have a flat," she finally replied, her voice rivaling the tire in terms of that particular quality.

He nodded thoughtfully amid the bursting of the warm, soothing bubble of contentment that had enveloped him since the third Manhattan of the evening.

"I suppose that is a problem."

Wendy stared incredulously for a moment, then stomped around to the boot.

"Yes, it's a problem." Fishing for her keys, she gave a long-suffering sigh. "This is _not_ what I needed tonight…"

"Oh, come now, Wendy," Joker laughed, climbing from the car. "Not what you needed _tonight_? When exactly is the last time you've been out for a nice drive, and thought to yourself, 'I think I would quite like a flat tire at the moment', hmm?"

"Alright, fine," she huffed. "It's not what I need _ever_, but _especially_ not tonight, because I'm already exhausted, and we have an early morning tomorrow, and we're in the middle of nowhere with nary a house in sight, and I'm freezing in this silly dress—"

"Well, I'm glad to say, I can help with at least one of those," he smiled, already shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it carefully over her shoulders.

Wendy gave a frightened, bewildered squeak as she began to sag under the unexpected weight of the perfectly innocuous-looking jacket.

"Too...heavy..." she managed before collapsing entirely.

Joker, ever solicitous to a woman in distress – as long as she fetched his tea, cleaned his office, and generally catered to his every whim on a daily basis – hurriedly lifted the jacket back off of the unfortunate little blonde heap on the ground.

"Sorry, Wendy, I forgot to warn you."

"What on earth do you _have_ in there?" she demanded, climbing stiffly to her feet and hurrying around to the back of the car, as much to get far away from that jacket as to check for the spare.

"Just the usual necessities," he shrugged. "Wallet, extra set of car keys, mobile phone, change of clothes, emergency tea supply, water filter, cream and sugar, pot, cups, tray, weaponry—"

"Sir?"

"Yes, Wendy?"

She looked up from the open boot with a rather indescribable expression.

"If the next things on that list aren't a spare tire and a jack, we might have a problem. Again."

He thought carefully.

"I don't know – let me look."

And so, out of his suit jacket pockets came a wallet, a set of keys, his extra-special old-fashioned-looking mobile phone, a neatly pressed pair of trousers and button-down, an immaculately laid out tea tray complete with cookies and sandwiches, a slingshot, an inflatable raft, a four-poster bed covered in down-filled quilts, a set of what looked suspiciously like motorized prosthetic hands, and a llama, which promptly scurried away.

"I'm afraid not," he said with a sigh. "I must have taken them out when I last had this dry cleaned."

Wendy, meanwhile, was surveying the heaping contents of her boss's pocket, speechless.

"Oh, come on now, Wendy, don't worry," he entreated, patting her shoulder. "We'll be just fine. It just so happens, I have a spare."

"Tire?" she asked hopefully.

He laughed.

"No, that's sitting in my closet at home."

Thus saying, he reached once more into his pocket and with some difficulty, pulled out a gleaming, brand new Bentley.

_I don't know why I even bother being surprised anymore,_ Wendy thought, admiring the lovely vehicle with the corner of her mind _not_ busy running in frantic circles and demanding how on earth this was even possible.

"Now," a beaming Mr. Joker was meanwhile saying, "let's go, shall we?"

----------------------------------------------------------

Five minutes later, five minutes that had seen the systematic dashing of Wendy's rekindled hopes to get home in time for 24, that same young lady gave a long, gusty sigh, chin in her hands, as Joker delivered a good, solid kick to the back left hubcap of the effectively useless vehicle.

"Sir, it's not the car's fault," she called flatly.

He glared sharply.

"Alright, Wendy, I get it. Could have happened to anyone."

"Forgetting the spare tire, the car jack, _and_? the keys to your spare car?"

"Oh, shut up," he grumbled, rummaging through his pockets once more, and eventually withdrawing his mobile phone. "I'll phone for a tow truck. Rather, I'll phone for two."

"Em, sir?"

Joker looked sharply in the direction of this nervous little interjection.

"Yes, Wendy?"

"This might be a good time to mention that I forgot to charge your mobile phone this morning."

A long, heavy silence descended upon the duo, their cars, and the llama that had returned to borrow a few of the sandwiches from the tea tray.

"I see," he finally said calmly. A long moment went by. "The nearest farmhouse is two kilometers away, you know; you'll never be able to walk it in those silly heels."

Wendy inched back as he approached.

"Em…"

----------------------------------------------------------

A very short while later saw a tall, pale, pale-haired fellow dressed in immaculate formal wear striding quickly down the darkened country road, sharp green eyes narrowed and scanning the hills for any sign of a porch light.

As a distinctly annoyed, if muffled noise broke the silence of the summer night, he smiled.

"Mr. Joker!" his pocket shouted. "When I said I wanted to get into your pants, this wasn't what I had in mind!"

-----------------------------------------------------------


	16. A Bottle For the Birthday Boy

Bottle For the Birthday Boy

* * *

Whoever had come up with the concept of birthdays, Joker thought viciously, impatiently swatting aside an errant bunch of balloons that had drifted across his desk, ought to be shot. Painfully.

He was fairly certain that there was something wrong with this sentiment - perhaps several things. But focusing on the things wrong with his own thought process had never been a favoured activity of Mr. Joker, who instead redoubled his glare upon a stack of birthday cards dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

Between the balloons, the cards, the useless gifts, and the massive slice of disgustingly sugary cake that the lunatics across the hall had insisted he take with him for "later" in addition to the slice he'd choked down at the time, he was about ready to jump out in front of a moving bus, just to make sure that he would never have to put up with another birthday.

And of course, Mr. Gentleman had found it absolutely hilarious, when the singing telegram that _someone_ had hired (Joker had his suspicions about _who_, deny it as the old man might) had followed him around for an hour, in spite of his greatest attempts to throw them off the scent.

All in all, Joseph Carpenter vowed in his heart that the next poor fool to so much as _mention_ his birthday would end up fleeing the room in terror, pursed by various and sundry flying objects.

He was drawn from his attempt to burn his birthday cards to ash with a glare by a soft knock at the door.

"Come in," he called absently, swatting those damned balloons back out of his way.

"I'm leaving for the night, sir," the newcomer called cheerfully. "Oh, and by the way, Happy Birthday!"

Joker froze, stiffened, and raised his head slowly to fix his little blonde assistant with a piercing gaze. He could nearly feel his own hand moving, as though of its own accord, toward the nearest blunt object.

And yet, the longer he looked, taking in her bright beaming smile, the earnestness lighting those big blue eyes, the more the urge for projectiles began to fade, leaving in its place the strong urge to get drunk and sob out his hatred of birthdays on someone's shoulder.

"Don't look so glum, Mr. Joker," she was meanwhile chiding. "I brought you a present. And I remember what you said last year," she hurried on before he could protest in horror at yet another bizarre wood-brass-felt thing designed to organize his desk. "You said, 'I hate birthdays as a general rule, Wendy, but I hate _my _birthday most of all, so if you _must_ bring me a gift, make it alcoholic.' So I brought you a bottle of wine!"

He shook his head in bafflement at this ghastly approximation of his voice, due in part to the fundamental differences between a soprano and a baritone.

"I do hope you never plan to pursue a career in voice acting, Wendy." Then, as her words themselves began to seep through his knee-jerk reaction of critiquing anything and everything that presented itself, he did a double take. "Wendy...you brought me alcohol?"

"Yes, sir!" she chirped proudly, pulling a brightly wrapped, distinctly bottle-shaped package from her bag.

Eyes alight with pure joy, he approached, arms stretched towards her.

She blushed brightly, eyes approaching the size of tea saucers, and instinctively took a tiny step back.

"Oh, how I've longed for you," he murmured to the package as he tugged it from her hands and cuddled it close.

"Harrumph!" Wendy observed pleasantly as the wrapping tissue started to fly.

"Why on earth does this look so familiar?" Joker wondered aloud, frowning as he peered at the bottle of deep red liquid.

"Em, because it's always been your favourite and I'm brilliant at guessing?" Wendy suggested hopefully.

"No, that's not it," he replied, his brow furrowing further. "Hold on; didn't you show me this very same bottle, and ask if I thought _your father _would like it?"

She crimsoned. _Blast_ him and his impeccable memory!

"W-well, I'm not much of a wine drinker, and it seems like every wine drinker on earth likes something different. I wanted to be sure you'd like it."

"Last year?"

"It said on the label that it needed six to twelve months of aging," she squeaked, her blush nearly glowing through the cracks between her fingers as she hid her face in her hands. "And I thought that on your birthday of all days, you'd want something you could drink right away."

He beamed, breaking off from his examination of the bottle to pat her shoulder gently.

"I'm very fortunate to have such a dear little mind-reader."

Embarrassment forgotten in a flash, Wendy gave him a stern look.

"Well, your _personal psychic_ thinks you should go home soon too. You can't stay at work all night on your own _birthday_."

He shook his head and sighed.

"Unfortunately, thanks to the inexplicable need of those around me to celebrate, I'll have to do just that. Between the cake, the singing telegram, the clown, and all the interruptions, I've accomplished next to nothing since morning."

She fixed him with huge, pleading eyes.

"Promise that you'll take a break, at least?"

He smiled.

"I promise. In fact," he continued as she turned to leave him in peace, "I think I'll do that now. I might even open your birthday gift."

She beamed.

"You'll have to let me know tomorrow how it is."

"Unless you'd like to join me? As I recall, you've hardly escaped the festivities unscathed - you had to choke down just as much of that cake as I did."

"But I _like_ cake!" she protested, quite scandalized at his implication to the contrary.

He brightened.

"Well, then." Reaching around behind his desk, he picked up a brightly decorated birthday napkin bearing an enormous piece of cake, slathered in sugary white and pink icing, and pushed it into her hands. "Enjoy."

She looked horrified, despite the soft reminder from her stomach that she had forgotten to eat lunch today.

"But it's your birthday cake! I can't eat your special birthday piece!"

He stepped quickly around her as she tried to return the massive chunk of dried out birthday repast.

"I insist. Really."

After a longing gaze at the baked good in her hand, she hurried across the room after him.

"Oh, Mr. Joker, are you sure?"

"Absolutely," he assured her over his shoulder. "Enjoy it with my blessing."

Making sure to to hold her unexpected treat tightly (but not too tightly) she watched curiously as he rummaged through his coat pockets, finally withdrawing a Swiss Army Knife and flipping up the corkscrew attachment. A brief moment and a soft _pop_ later, he shoved the bottle at her.

"Hold this," he ordered on his way back to his desk.

"Em, okay..." she agreed hesitantly, shifting the cake into one arm and readjusting her grip on the bottle. Her eyes widened as he withdrew an oversized novelty wineglass, its capacity approximately half of an average bottle, from one of his desk drawers.

"It's been a very bad day," he explained after following her gaze and deducing the source of her shock.

"Ohh, should I have brought two bottles?" she asked, eyes wide and anxious.

He laughed.

"I appreciate the thought, but I think one is quite sufficient. Thank-you."

Her eyes reached and exceeded the size of the average saucer as he leaned closer, lips brushing hers in a quick, light kiss. Bright red and dazed, she paid little notice to the bottle slipping from her grip.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Joker might have howled, had he been a well-charred torso trapped in a black mechanical suit, helmet, and slightly less mechanical cape.

However, as he was not Darth Vader, and not given to such silly and badly scripted outcries, he simply watched in dismay as the bottle fell to the floor, his best hope of getting through the evening with his sanity in tact (and indeed, some surprisingly good wine in its own right) migrating from the bottle to the carpet with a soft glugging sound.

Meanwhile, Wendy stared with a slightly quivering lip as a goodly portion of her paycheck seeped slowly over the floor.

After a long moment, Joker turned to the horrified little blonde at his side.

"Well, there's only one thing to do at a time like this."

Wendy shrank back slightly, eyes wide and despondent

"Fire your assistant for being a hopeless klutz and wasting perfectly good alcohol on your birthday?"

With a noise of mild, good-natured irritation, he patted her shoulder lightly.

"Don't be silly, Wendy." He paused, casting another look at the growing puddle of wine. "Now, run and fetch us some straws, will you?"

* * *

End Notes: Dude, Joker totally gets drunk on his birthdays. You can totally tell from his unique inflection on the letter 'N' at the five-minute-and-twenty-seven-second point of the third OAV. With all that supporting evidence, it's practically _canon_. XP

* * *


	17. Promise With a Kiss

Promise With a Kiss

* * *

Summary: This is not how she imagined her wedding. Joker/Wendy, post-ROD the TV.

* * *

This is not how she imagined her wedding.

As a child, she had misty images of cathedrals and princess-gowns and armfuls of perfect red roses, because Mummy said that every girl does, and she's never been one to question tradition.

The little white lace sundress borrowed from a neighbour is a far cry from the yards and yards of silk and satin and tulle, and there's not a seed pearl in sight. The flowers that the farmer's wife twisted into her hair aren't exactly the floor-length veil Mummy told her she would wear someday either.

The little bundle of apple blossoms that the farmer's daughter across the way cut and tied prettily with a length of ribbon – _blue, to match your eyes_ – is hardly the overflowing bouquet of roses that was supposed to make her arms ache and fill the air with the perfume of love.

They – well, _she_, because she's the bride, and even Mr. Joker knows that the bride gets the last word on her wedding day – opted for the nearby orchard over the church in town, and the dense leafy canopy of the of apple and plum branches overhead is beautiful. But it's still nothing like the gloomy, splendid cathedral of her daydreams, brought to life and celebration with a king's ransom worth of flowers.

When she thinks about it, it's only fair that it's nothing like she imagined, because she's willing to bet that this isn't where he thought he'd end up either – buried in the countryside, keeping carefully out of sight, marrying his _assistant_, of all things.

But when he lifts her chin and leans in to _promise with a kiss_, she can read in his eyes and his smile and his touch that amid all the dashed expectations in his life, this is the part that he wouldn't change if he could.

* * *

End Notes: Because I needed to get the sap-fluff out of my system before I tackle the babyfic I've got planned for these two.


	18. Dear Baby

Dear Baby

* * *

Summary: In which Wendy apologizes profusely to her unborn child.

* * *

_Dear Baby,_

_I suppose the first thing I should do is apologize. I'm a little annoyed with my own mother for the whole "having me" thing at the moment, although that's due mostly to Marianne ordering me immediately off my Effexor the moment she found me hyperventilating in the ladies' room over the little plus-sign on the test. I've been sending her article after article along the lines of antidepressants posing no real risk to a pregnancy, but she just continues to frown at me and ask if I really want to be responsible for giving my son or daughter a drug dependency._

_But even if you don't end up at the bathroom counter with Mummy every morning, the two of us taking our antidepressants together, I don't imagine that I'll be able to give you anything to look forward to. You see, I've already destroyed one child's life, completely robbed him of the chance to _be_ a child because I hadn't the first idea what to do for him. And yet, I'm still far better qualified to handle you than your father._

_He's brilliant, of course, and beautiful. Has this relentless poise and charisma, which might explain why we're in this situation now, if it weren't those rare moments that he actually let himself be human that turned me into the walking cliche of fancying my boss.  
_

_Unfortunately, your Daddy also borders dangerously on sociopathic most of the time, has an ugly tendency to simply remove any and all inconveniences from his path, and wants a child of his own approximately as much as he wants another debilitating knee injury._

_Fortunately, he'll never find out about you, because you won't even have a chance to be born before you'll stop belonging to him. Before we both will._

_At least, I hope he'll never find out. _

_I'm trying not to contemplate how he'll react if he does find out, even though ignoring the possibility is probably a mistake. We've worked together long enough that I can nearly read his mind, but unfortunately, that wordless understanding goes both ways. _

_Maybe I'll try to avoid using the stairs for a while. There are plenty of employees who would agree to "accidentally" nudge me down a flight or two in return for a few months of free parking. _

_Abortion without guilt: it's just the sort of thing he'd dream up. _

_"It's just as well; if your mind is on some little parasite you'll never even see, it won't be on your work, and we can't afford that. I need you at full efficiency, especially now."  
_

_And maybe he'd be right. Maybe, in the new world, you _won't_ be my baby. Maybe the part of Junior that isn't drowned out by all the Mr. Gentleman will remember how we took him from his mother just as soon as he'd gotten comfy, and he'll take you away from me and give you to someone else. I hope you don't end up with someone even worse than I was, as some misplaced punishment. Because I won't remember it, won't know why you're suffering, and I always thought that punishment was meant to breed remorse instead of resentment. _

_And anyway, punishing someone for someone else's crimes is even more absurd than writing letters to your unborn child._

_He can do what he wants to me - whatever it is, I'll deserve it - but I hope he'll leave you alone. I think I've enough to apologize to you for already, what with bringing you into the world with two parents that couldn't raise a houseplant, let alone a child. You deserve better; you deserve parents who can take care of you, parents who aren't living under the taint of doing what's necessary - maybe - to bring the world to a better place._

_Parents who want you._

_It isn't nice, and I'm sorry for that too, when there are so many people trying to have children, but I don't want to lie to my own baby, and if I'm entirely honest, I _don't_ want you any more than Mr. Joker does. It's been a long time since I've even thought about having children, or a husband, or anything approaching a normal life, because I'd invariably end up with a strong urge to drink when I did. But eventually, the idea's lost appeal, and now the thought of having a tiny little baby relying on me for everything just scares the hell out of me._

_I can't even take care of myself; as much as I wish otherwise, I'd probably just make a mess of your life, too._

_I'd love to take you away somewhere nice, somewhere that doesn't remember what I've done in the name of world peace and love of your Daddy. I could work in a bank, or a bakery, or a pub, and you could go to school in the country. Even if the teacher wasn't very good, living so close to nature would make up for it, and you'd grow up happy._

_But your Daddy would never allow it. If we left, he'd find us. I've got too many of his secrets, and he doesn't let people have his secrets unless they're under his control. Once they stop being under his control, they stop being anything else either. And he's already made enough of a mess by bringing you into this world; I'm certainly not going to let him make it even worse by taking you out of it.  
_

_I can't promise you much, but I promise that I'll keep you safe and happy for as long as I can._

_Love,  
Mummy_

* * *

End Notes: Because I reallyreally want to write a Joker/Wendy babyfic, although this isn't it. This was just a little piece to get me thinking about Joker, Wendy, and babies who aren't Junior in the same sentence, which initially made my brain seize up and whimper. Anyway, can you tell who was just a _leeeeeeeeee_ttle too influenced by Waitress? XD


End file.
